The Darkest Hour

        Looking at the glowing red bottle of wine, my mind began to drift. Bringing back a thousand memories; each one flashing before another followed. Another sip of the red calmed those memories for a little while, bringing the bottle back into focus. That wine was cheap, in honest, it tasted like dog shit. I wondered why someone would put dog shit into wine. As if the winery where it was made had a dog shit outbreak and decided to slap on a $4.25 price tag, as a sorry for the sullied product. Then again, I thought, what asshole buys a four-dollar bottle of wine and complains about the flavor? Broke, with little to my name, I should have learned to enjoy the low-cost options. Even friends, the ones who stayed through tough times were never the favorite.

        'The Patron Saint of Dead Ends.' Words that emerged and began to echo through every thought. It hurt more when I paired the title with a mental image of her saying it. Another sip quieted that intrusive title. The air in my trash apartment filled with doom and gloom heavier than any day before. I could not go to sleep; all I would dream of is failures and the regrets I never moved past. Each day I would shrug under the weight of those choices already made.

        I filled the plastic cup after another sip. It was a reward for another day, another morning, another noon, another night, another chance to let this get better. I drank it fast after lighting one of the last six cigarettes. Burning my throat as I drank deep from the dark red liquid.

        Silence followed letting a moment hang in suspense, the shadows of yesterday pulling at my coat tail like some unwanted child. I heard my phone ring. I knew it was nothing of importance, nothing of importance surrounded everything now. Destined to be born and die in this nothing southern state, in this shit town with shit people who felt important. They were not, they only had soft dreams of long journeys ahead, always looking forward.

        When thinking about others, only disappointment arose. Modern Man; made soft from technology and love, where I was raised by the hands of angry women and uninterested fathers. These modern men come beard perfumed, hands soft and filled with a smug sense of self-satisfaction. Why should he deserve happiness and pride while I am overburdened with an empty void?

        I started to have a creeping urge to stomp on a skull until blood poured from their mouth. I wanted to grab someone by the ears and smash their head against the pale concrete, painting that surface with my fury. I would be like a new Picasso, one that would never be remembered or appreciated, rightfully so.

        I began to feel a sickness in my stomach as I poured the rest of the wine. The words 'patron saint of dead ends' came again. Followed by thoughts of the last woman I had fucked. She had a stronger chin than my own and had freckled perky tits. She was 10 years older than me but fucked liked a 20-year-old college girl.

        'She would never call me anything like that.' I told myself. Briefly thought about calling her, but I was too drunk to drive, and she was probably unavailable for the night.

        I chugged the last cup, deciding to walk outside. It had been a while since I had walked. The coffee shop down the road seemed like a delightful place to sit, sober up and not remember.

        On the sidewalk in the darkness of night, every step felt like I was sinking into the ground. My shoulders felt heavy as if depression's blackened corpse hung from my back, like a pelt I had not caught or conquered. Instead, it caught and conquered me.

        The three-block walk seemed like miles, but before sinking too deep I lit up my fifth remaining cigarette. Stopping, I stood still trying to enjoy something, anything for but a moment. The breeze beat against the trees that lined the streets. The sidewalk lamps buzzed and cast shadows along the pavement that began to dance as the wind blew the leaves above me. But I do not fear the moon's light, for tonight I will dance with my demons and laugh as they sing the songs of sorrowful memories.

        I saw a brief flash of blue light and then I heard the crackle of thunder echo in the distance. I was two blocks from my house and one from the coffee shop as the rain began to lightly fall. Asking myself. 'Would it get worse before I had ended my time at the coffee shop, or would I be sloshing through the rain in the middle of the night?'

        I decided to head back to my apartment. I would rather walk in the light rain now and end my night, not feeling strong enough to endure the hard rain that may come when the showers pour down. With that choice I again heard her say, 'Patron Saint of Dead Ends.'